


Fortunato’s Perspective

by bubbly_turtle333



Category: The Cask of Amontillado - Edgar Allan Poe
Genre: Canon Rewrite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:47:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22175806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubbly_turtle333/pseuds/bubbly_turtle333
Summary: The second half of the story rewritten from Fortunato’s perspective with a couple of added detail because I felt like it.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Fortunato’s Perspective

When I first arrived upon Montresor’s estate, I found myself envious of his opulent display of wealth. It is for this reason that I find my curiosity build the farther I walk. The contrast between the house itself and what lies beneath it is stark, and I imagine what it could look like if Montresor used even a fraction of his riches on tidying up this space. He mentions the nitre, though has not yet brought himself to have it removed. I continue to say that my cough is but a nuisance, while in fact I’ve been told my time is drawing near. The nitre is of course no aid, as I feel my chest constrict with each breath, but I’m aware that to tell Monstresor of my weakness would be to dig my own grave. While I am speaking of graves, I must mention that these catacombs are fairly reminiscent of such. The darkness combines with an echo to give a feeling of immense expanse, while simultaneously feeling crushingly small.  
Despite my severe discomfort, Montresor exudes ease. Attempting to recall an instance where he did not is futile, as over all the years we’ve been acquainted, I’ve yet to see his face display even a hint of negativity. Despite my incessant jibes and insults, I've never received even the notion of a reaction. His posture is always stiff and smirk, never faltering. All of this is but fodder fueling my envy. After an indeterminate amount of time spent traveling the length of the catacombs, we at last reach what appears to be a crypt. It’s walls are lined with human remains, the origins of which I must wonder. Perhaps those of Montresor’s late ancestors? Alas not, I conclude, as those would be buried in an expensive ground at a grandiose funeral; not piled along the walls in a crypt such as those before me. Perhaps the house servants of the Montresor name? Despite being an odd concept, I allow myself to believe these to be the circumstances, if only to quell my curiosity. 

My sobering mind suddenly recalls the circumstances which brought me to this odd position, and I can’t help but wonder why in the world Montresor would choose this room to store his Amontillado. Upon consideration, I justify that perhaps he wished to hide it from his staff. A weak justification, yet the only one I may provide. I notice the small room jutting out a moment before Montresor draws it to my attention. Though the space is dark, I find I can picture the cask where I assume it sits. Using this as encouragement, I obey Montresor’s words and enter the small area. Finding it odd, a shiver travels the length of my spine as Montresor’s hand brushes my wrist, followed by the icy chill of a metal chain. My breath is stolen and I find myself unable to verbalize my concern as I follow the length of the chain with my gaze to find it securely fastened on the wall. My eyes meet those of who I considered a friend, and my knees grow weak at what meets them. His expression is unchanging. Identical to that I’ve seen a million times prior.

A scream catches in my throat as he steps off to the side, for a brief moment entirely out of view. A large stone is between his grasp when he returns, and I silently plead he not do as I know he shall. The aforementioned stone is gently placed upon the floor in the doorway, followed by four more. Once a row has been constructed, a paste is added between the gaps, followed by a second row. I stare aghast as this process continues until such a point as the doorway is nearly filled. With but a single gap remaining, I watch as the face of what I now consider the devil himself appears before me. My previously silent pleas are voiced in my last attempt at survival. However they fall on deaf ears as the face disappears. Not a moment after, the torch which lead me here replaces it, and I’m completely paralyzed as the hand holding it in place releases it’s grip. I watch the torch descend in what is simultaneously a second and an hour. As the final gap is filled with one last stone, I begin to laugh. For something has dawned on me: an ironic realization. For the past few months I’ve been concerning myself with the words of my doctor, fretting about my impending demise and attempting to conserve my health when possible. Yet all this was in vain, for it is not my cough that will kill me, but the betrayal of a friend. My laugh grows as I can hear what I assume are remains being piled against the third wall of the crypt. I gather the torch and with only a glance I conclude it will burn for roughly thirty minutes before going out. My laugh dies and my legs collapse. My face falls as reality hits. I watch the flame burn dimmer as tears threaten to fall. The vice around my chest tightens with the dying light, and as the last spark goes dark, my mind goes blank. The realization that this final spark was the last light I shall ever see presents itself, and heavy sobs rack my form. 

My thoughts flit briefly to my lady, to what she shall make of my indefinite absence. This is of no concern for myself, as possible courses of action have been reduced to zero. In the coming hours I amuse myself with thoughts of what shall claim my life first. Suffocation? Dehydration? Starvation? I briefly consider taking my own life, but decide against it due to lack of means to do so. For now my cause of death remains unknown, similar to the length of time since Montresor’s departure. I’d assume hours. Two, maybe three? Nothing compared to those to come. The impending hours filled with torture and agony, pain and suffering, darkness and silence. I find no difference when I close my eyes, for it is black as pitch either way. Time drones on as exhaustion overtakes me, and I gently make my way to the cold, damp floor. Once settled, the silence is overwhelming and I find myself gently tapping my finger on the floor, just to hear something besides my own laboured breathing. My muscles relax and my eyes close as consciousness falls from my grasp. 

My final thought before sleep overtakes me is that one thing is for certain: My rest shall not be in peace.


End file.
